


The Kingslayer & the Wolf

by words_are_wind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, can be read as romantic or platonic, edit: this became longer than i thought, feel like these two ought to have had a scene together, i just had fun with the dialogue tbh, idk - Freeform, something snarky or weirdly touching, takes place somewhere around s8 when jaime joins the north, they end up smooching so ... not so platonic i guess, tw: rape mention & gore/violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-09-23 02:50:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20332828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/words_are_wind/pseuds/words_are_wind
Summary: Snapshots of Arya & Jaime, mostly set in Winterfell after Jaime arrives, determined to fight for the living.





	1. Godswood

She finds him in the godswood of all places, lazing against a tree, a skin of wine in his good hand. “Kingslayer.”

Jaime spins around in surprise. Arya Stark has a habit of sneaking up on people. Just a few days in Winterfell and he’s noticed. The girl stands before him in an unassuming stance, disinterest on her face. She’s alone, as she often is. “Ah,” he says, gracing her with a charming smile, “the littlest wolf whelp. What are you doing out here? Not enjoying the feast, hm?” he asks, gesturing to the warmly lit great hall.

Arya takes a step closer and peers down at him, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness so she can make out his features. He’s older than she remembers, crow’s feet at his eyes, blond hair shaggier. But the brilliant green of his eyes remains. “I should ask you the same,” she says, gracefully plopping down next to him, hands beneath her knees. Watching. Waiting.

If Jaime Lannister is surprised to see Arya join him, he doesn’t let on. He lifts the skin of wine as if in cheers. “Thought I’d have a drink with the old gods.”

“You don’t follow the old gods.”

The grin he shoots her is mocking. “Never too late to start, I suppose. What have the Seven done for me anyhow? Imprisoned me, crippled me,” he says, waving around his golden hand, “ripped me of my children. Time for a change!” He takes a swig from the skin.

After a little while, Arya looks out at the rest of godswood, takes in the windchill, the stillness of the hot springs. She pictures this place as she remembers it from her girlhood, littered in crimson leaves, filled with wildflowers. “My father used to sit out here, you know,” she says quietly.

Jaime snorts, a rough, wet sound from his liquored throat. “Are you saying I remind you of dear Ned Stark?”

Arya’s laugh is sudden and bright, startling the man. He takes in the way her face changes, the upturned mouth, the pretty crescent moons of her eyes, the rosiness of her cheeks. “You are as far from my father as any man,” she says, like it’s the greatest jape she’s heard.

Jaime lets his wineskin fall to the floor, thumping his head against the tree trunk and closing his eyes. “Hm, not honorable enough?” he asks quietly, bitterly, almost to himself. The image of Ned Stark is like a twisting knife in his side. _Sanctimonious as he was solemn, the bastard__._

“I didn’t think you cared much for honor,” Arya says honestly, her voice smooth. “My father died for it, with it. Despite his misgivings, he died an honorable man. Could you do the same, Kingslayer?”

Jaime isn’t enjoying this conversation much anymore. He opens his eyes and turns towards Arya. The wolf whelp’s eyes are hard, cold, slate gray like her damned father. Her expression is blank, though, and he suddenly wonders how this woman-child learned to free herself of emotion. He finds it queer, unsettling. “Shouldn’t you head back inside? The nobles will want to see Ned’s valiant daughter in full view,” he sneers. “Leave a man to drink by his lonesome.”

Arya snorts. “Is that why you’re out here? Too scared to face the people? Pity _really_ doesn’t suit you, Kingslayer,” Arya says, nose scrunching in distaste.

Jaime leans closer, just a touch. “It’s interesting, you know. When Northerners call me Kingslayer they say it like some sort of curse; they spit it as though they’ve smelt something foul. And yet, you, the Daughter of the North, say it like … like—"

“Like what?” Arya asks, impatient. “Must all Southroners speak in leaps and bounds?”

Jaime laughs, enjoying the way her face twists into a scowl. “You say it tender, little one.”

“Don’t call me that,” Arya says absently. Jon calls her Little One. Ned used to call her Little One.

“You say it sad,” Jaime continues. “Disappointed, even. But, sweet.”

Arya scoots back, putting as much space as she can between them. She doesn’t like having him so close, his eyes boring into hers like she’s his to figure out. “I know why you killed the Mad King,” Arya says suddenly. “Brienne told me.” Arya remembers seeing the Kingslayer back in Winterfell and wanting to gut him. Ser Brienne had caught her look and pulled her aside.

Jaime waits, unsure of what she’s getting at. It wasn’t as though he’d sworn the wench to secrecy when he told her, but he certainly didn’t expect the story to spread. When Arya doesn’t continue, just stares at him with those thousand year old eyes, he huffs. “Well, there you have it, then. I had my reasons, though no one seemed to care much for that,” he says flippantly. He nurses his wine again to distract from the tension building in his chest.

“The people think you dishonorable for it. Kingslayer. _Oathbreaker_,” Arya says in that grating, even tone again.

His head snaps to hers, answering glare hard. “And what do you think?” _Why am I asking her?_ he thinks stupidly. Jaime’s not sure he wants an answer.

“I think you dishonorable for a host of things. You bed your sister, you father incestuous bastards, you pushed my baby brother out a window to save face, you would kill for Cersei, yet you cowered before your father—” She ticks them off one by one, voice gaining conviction.

“What do you know of my father, wolf bitch?” Jaime cuts in, both furious and chastised. Any mention of Tywin makes him feel like a green boy again.

Arya continues, angling her body towards him. “You carry the sword your father had melted down and reforged. My father’s greatsword. You are dishonorable to think yourself worthy of wielding it,” she says, expression finally breaking into something pained. His sword belt feels like lead around his waist. _I did not want it,_ he wants to scream. “But, I do not think you evil for slaying the Mad King.”

“Should I thank you?” he asks quietly. _Did she want a pat on the back__,_ he wonders.

Arya smiles, wolfish and patronizing. But her tone is soft. “Mayhaps I think you dishonorable for not doing it sooner.”

And Jaime’s heart sinks like a pit in his stomach. He remembers standing outside the royal bedchamber, remembers listening to Aerys rape his sister-wife again and again, remembers the stink of burning flesh as the Mad King cooked Rickard Stark alive, remembers the utter delight on the king's face when Brandon Stark choked to death trying to save his father. He looks at Arya and remembers Lady Lyanna’s face. He wasn’t there when she wasted away in the Tower of Joy, but he can imagine it, can imagine the lifeless pallor of her skin, the stench of blood and roses. He pictures Arya in her place. Ned’s little girl. And he could retch.

“What do you want?” he rasps, wanting to get to his feet and scurry away. But the wine has rendered him uncoordinated. He knows he would only look foolish lumbering to his feet and running away from this eerie Northern girl. She’s only a girl.

Arya looks back at him, eyes sad as they are solemn, and Jaime thinks she’s never resembled her lord father more than this moment. “You are not an honorable man,” she repeats, hand cupping his face gently. “But mayhaps you can die one.” And with that, she rises and quietly makes her way back to the feast.

Jaime’s cheek is warm with the ghost of her touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey ... *scratches neck* .. this just sorta happened


	2. Training Yard

Arya is in the training yard that morning, forehead damp with sweat as she swings Needle in a graceful arc. Sometimes, she’ll train with the other Northmen of the guard, showing them a bit of water dancing; other times, a stray Dothraki will step forward, big arms hacking away at her with an arakh. Today, this early, most of Winterfell has yet to rise. All is quiet, a delicate fog blanketing much of the castle grounds, and Arya stands a lone figure in the mist. As she whips around, nimble feet sidestepping her imagined opponent, she’s suddenly met with the questioning gaze of the Kingslayer. He looks sleep rumpled and cold, shifting from foot to foot while clutching a cloak around his shoulders. Arya notes his clean shaven face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw. _Stupid. He’d be warmer with a beard__,_ she thinks. She drops her sword arm but stays rooted in the ring, smoothing her expression save for a raised brow.

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s barely sun up and you’re already training?” he counters, arms leaning against the railing. “Do you not sleep, little wolf?”

Arya sheathes Needle and wipes at her face with the back of her hand, swallowing a snort. “That’s new. I thought it was wolf whelp. Or, was it wolf bitch?”

Jaime reddens, properly ashamed. He’d been drunk and upset, he reasons. Coughing, he dips beneath the railing and steps inside, making his way towards the girl. “That was…unkind of me,” he says gently.

“What do I care what you call me?” Arya asks, shrugging. She takes a step back, keeping a healthy distance between the two. “The Hound used to call me wolf bitch.”

“Yes, well, the Hound is a cunt, so…”

“What do you want?” she asks suddenly, face guarded.

Jaime takes in the sight of her. She’s taller than he last remembers, though not by much. Her shoulders slightly broader, too. She dons well-fitted leather breeches and a wool jerkin, and he can easily make out the slender musculature of her body—strong, sinewy lines built from fighting. Her sword belt hangs round the dip of her waist, a rapier and an ornate dagger strapped to each side. _She looks a warrior_, he thinks amusedly. He remembers her beast of a direwolf, the one famed for biting Joffrey and running off. He suddenly imagines her at the girl’s side, what a sight that would make. Is that what the bards would sing of? A wolf queen running wild in the North? And yet, Jaime thinks, Arya Stark is the not the type of girl who’d enjoy such notoriety. He glances upon her face and finds her expression impatient, brows furrowed and mouth frowning.

“Did you come out here to stare at me, Kingslayer?” she asks.

Jaime takes another step towards her, a haughty look on his face “Now, that’s not fair. I’ve come up with a new name for you; you should do the same for me.” This, he can do. Easy smiles and teasing remarks. Maybe this is all he knows.

“What should I call you? What name is befitting of a man such as yourself? Tell me, I’d like to know.” Her tone is hard, her face twisting into a near sneer.

Absently, Jaime wonders how he’d upset her so. Sure, he’d fought Ned Stark in King’s Landing, he wields the remnants of Ice. He’d pushed Bran Stark from that blasted tower. Moreover, he’s a Lannister—his family held Sansa captive, married her off to Tyrion, conspired with the Boltons to orchestrate the Red Wedding, made a mockery of House Stark. The list is endless, and yet, there is something personally offended in Arya’s disposition towards Jaime. Something bone deep, tired and disappointed, and it grates him.

He can recall encounters with nearly each Stark, unsavory though they were. Biting words with Ned and Catelyn, mocking niceties with the Young Wolf, a dismissive glance at the bastard, bored indifference in the face of Sansa’s fear, and worst of all, not having a care in the world as Bran plummeted to the ground. But Arya, Arya was an enigma. He’d hardly taken note of her back then; she was nothing more than a wild little animal running through the Red Keep. And now she emerged a woman near grown, her gaze so thoroughly assessing him, undoing him. Jaime _hates_ it. When she scoffs and marches right past him, he grabs her wrist with his good hand, fingers digging into her delicate skin.

Arya doesn’t wrench free of his grasp, doesn’t indicate that his hold even pains her. She simply looks up at him with a cold glare. “Let go of me,” she says quietly. “Do you want to lose another hand?”

Her words sound a promise, and Jaime deftly lets his grip fall, but shifts to block her way, standing much too close for comfort’s sake. _What did I ever do to you__, _he wants to scream. _Why do you hate me so?_ He glares down at her. “What did you mean the other night?” he asks instead, voice tight. Her words had kept him awake, rolling around his head like a mocking vow. _You are not an honorable man. Mayhaps you can die one._

Arya shifts her gaze from him, traitorously remembering the feel of his cool cheek against her hand. It had been an impulse, reaching out to touch the Kingslayer. It was not out of affection, or comfort even. She just wanted to feel the life thrumming beneath his skin, wanted to pair his name and his face with a definite touch. _He’s real__, _she thought that night. _He’s real and broken and pitiful. And yet, there is strength. Something decent __… _she shakes her head, ridding herself of useless thoughts.

“I don’t know what you want,” Arya admits, peering up at him. “You were my age when you joined the Kingsguard. I used to hear stories about you… I pictured you some golden haloed hero. And then you and Cersei and King Robert came to Winterfell and I lost my family.” Her gray eyes are glassy with angry tears. “You fuck your bitch of a sister, you do all these terrible things, for _her_,” she spits. “Or for your father, so he might’ve looked upon you with pride. But he’s gone now. And your sister carries your babe in her belly. Yet here you are. _What do you want_?” she asks again, voice pained, eyes beseeching. “What will you do?”

Jaime reaches out to smooth away the tear stains on her cheeks, hand sweeping across to cradle her head, thumb along her jaw. “Little wolf,” he says softly. But all he feels is a lump in his throat and hot shame in his blood. Would that he could answer her.

Suddenly, a voice cuts through the tense silence. “Kingslayer,” Jon barks, tone harsh as the Northern winds.

Arya welcomes the interruption, stepping out of Jaime’s hold and roughly wiping at her face before calmly walking to Jon. Jaime watches as she presses close to her brother’s side and burrows into his furs, watches as the King in the North grips her hand and urgently asks if she’s alright, gaze tender. The sight is painful, though Jaime cannot decide if it makes him ache for Cersei or this steely Northern girl.

“Are you alright?” Jon asks again.

Arya nods, squeezing his hand. “Jaime and I were just talking. About training, fighting stances, the like,” she says, voice light.

Jon takes in her slightly puffy eyes, the strained look of the Kingslayer, and lets it go for now. He sends a disdainful glare to the lion before ushering his little sister back towards the castle. “You can train later,” Jon chides. He murmurs something else, head dipping low, and Arya nods, a grateful smile on her lips. 

Jaime watches them leave, rooted in his spot as he realizes she called him by his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know what maybe this is a series of drabbles. ... who knows it's 2am im wide awake


	3. Supper

Arya sits next to him that evening. She doesn’t even direct a snippy comment his way, just sits down with her venison stew and begins eating. An olive branch of sorts.

And yet, Jaime is startled. They haven’t spoken since that morning in the training yard, not since she gazed at him with steadfast, sorrowful eyes, not since he held her cheek like some tender-hearted idiot. Jaime recalls the feel of her warm skin and his fingers unknowingly twitch, nearly dropping his bread.

“What are you doing?” he asks slowly, voice dipping low. He usually eats alone, or with the wench and her boy squire. Certainly out of sight of the Dragon Queen. Tyrion still avoids him.

“Eating, stupid,” Arya replies, barely resisting rolling her eyes.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing at, girl, but—”

“That’s rich,” Arya starts. All she wanted to do was sup quietly with him. She hadn’t planned to at first, but then she caught the feral sneer Daenerys directed at him, and immediately bristled. There was no love lost between House Stark and the Kingslayer either, but Arya felt a queer, possessive thing bloom in her belly when others hurled insults at him, treating him no better than a leper. Especially the Dragon Queen._ Your mad father deserved to die_, she thought unkindly. _Would that Jaime skewered King Aerys sooner._

The look he’s giving her now is stupid and expectant, and she huffs in irritation. “You’re the one with the flowery words, the taunting, your hand on my cheek. I mean, what _was_ that?” she asks, rolling her eyes for true this time.

“You did it first,” Jaime blurts like some green boy. He clamps his mouth shut, glaring down at his stew as though offended. He’s too old for this.

With a sputter, Arya looks away. “That was different,” she says, tone harsh. She doesn’t like thinking of that night in the godswood; it was a sacred place, a place where her lord father sought peace and guidance. To see the Kingslayer so thoroughly defeated and upset there, it was wrong. It was all wrong.

Jaime drops his good hand to the table, fist clenched. He surreptitiously peeks around the great hall, trying to gauge how much privacy the two have at the moment. He surely can’t whisk her away to some dark corridor for this conversation, he thinks, before mentally chiding himself. _You shouldn’t be seeking more private moments with her, you lecherous bastard._ No, he’ll have to avoid the hard glare Jon Snow is shooting him from the dais and pretend to cordially sup and converse with the she-wolf. Decades at court taught him to charmingly play the mummer’s game, but it feels wrong to do so with Arya.

“Arya, what…why are you here?” Jaime asks instead, voice tired.

Arya looks back at him, takes in his surprisingly vulnerable expression, and shrugs. “Just eating,” she answers honestly. “I don’t want to talk about the terrible things you’ve done or try to decipher your false teasing,” she adds quietly. She rips at a chunk of bread, sopping it in stew before popping it in her mouth, chewing slowly.

Jaime finally nods and follows her lead, hesitantly digging into his food as the tension subsides. It’s good, he notes absently. Northern fare has never held much appeal to him, but with fresh bread and good ale, it’s a full meal that warms his belly.

They sup like that for a while, not a word spoken between the two, but the silence is shockingly comfortable. It’s not often Jaime can function without offering a witty or biting remark, and he finds he likes the change.

With a delicate hand, Arya slides her dessert towards him, eyes looking ahead. “Do you like spice cake?” she asks suddenly. “Sansa prefers lemon cakes. She loved them as child, so much so that Father would send ravens south and have the fruit sent up here.”

“I like spice cake,” Jaime answers, taking a bite for himself. “Ha, I suppose it keeps you lot warm in the winter. Lemons are too tart. They grow well in the south though, into plentiful, thick groves. Makes for a pretty sight the way they’re all speckled with yellow.”

“Did you have lemon trees back home?”

“At Casterly Rock,” Jaime recalls, memories coming to him unbidden. “My mother loved to tend to them, she spent much of her time in the gardens.” He thinks of his lady mother, her wide smile and pretty golden hair, her gentle hands that swept across his forehead, kissing his brow after he’d rattle on about his day. He’d been so young when she passed. Remembering himself, Jaime roughly clears his throat, avoiding Arya’s soft gaze.

He hasn’t thought of his mother in some time; it somehow feels like betrayal to casually mention her to Arya. He thinks she must have nice memories of Lady Catelyn as well. Before the War of Five Kings, before the Red Wedding. Jaime swallows the bile creeping up his throat and suddenly pushes the plate away.

“I shouldn’t—we shouldn’t—” he mutters but Arya just shrugs, quietly nibbling on her cake.

“I don’t mind hearing about your mother. I heard Lady Joanna was a good woman. And mayhaps the best part of Tywin,” she adds, face contemplative.

Jaime glances at her, eyes questioning. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned my father,” he says. “Why do I get the feeling you know him better than most people in the seven kingdoms?”

Arya’s lips turn up in a wry grin. “That’s a story for another time, Jaime.”

“I like it when you say my name,” he admits, face too open, too honest. Arya suddenly feels like the Waif, wanting to rap his knuckles and warn him to guard his expression.

But Jaime’s gaze is hot as he takes her in; the graceful line of her pale neck and soft jawline framed by wisps of wavy brown hair, the puckered bow of her pink mouth, the rosy flush of her angular cheeks, the silver glint of her thousand year old eyes. Eyes that are so different from his own, his twin’s. Eyes that are now gazing back at him unsure and guarded.

“You stare,” she admonishes quietly.

Jaime continues to do so, feeling freer than he has in some time, drinking in the sight of her as a smile slowly spreads across his face. It’s the first time Arya’s ever found his expression truly like that of a lion. Calculating, predatory. _I am a wolf, and I will not be afraid,_ she remembers saying once. But this is different. Arya does not feel cowed or cornered or young, even. She has seen and done so much. Unspeakable things—things the great Kingslayer might even gawk at. She meets his gaze and pitches forward, head cocked.

“Is this how you do it, Jaime?” Arya asks, tone airy. “An errant caress, a longing stare…that pretty grin? Should I find my smallclothes damp?”

Jaime swallows, gaze suddenly faltering. _She speaks too boldly,_ he thinks, heart wildly hammering against his chest. He scoffs and finally averts his eyes, only to meet the questioning glare of a few Northmen, large and lumbering and entirely too hostile for suppertime, Jaime thinks. He reminds himself that these people have no love for him, and have a near unyielding love for the girl.

_Ned’s valiant daughter, the Daughter of the North_. They would wage war for her, Jaime suspects. And not only because she looked the second coming of Lady Lyanna, but because Arya Stark had proven herself as steely and willful as the North. She survived and viciously fought to take Winterfell back—only as a true Stark would. Her father’s men, their wives and children, and smallfolk alike wouldn’t soon forget that. The North remembers.

Turning back to Arya and shrugging, Jaime offers an easier smile. “I doubt any of my tricks could subdue the great she-wolf,” he says. “Though you were the first to mention smallclothes, not I. The scandal of it all. What would the King in the North say, little wolf?” he asks, smirking.

Arya snorts. _That smug look must come natural to him, _she thinks, not unkindly. _Mayhaps he exited the womb wearing that damnable smirk. _“You mention any of this to Jon, and he’s like to geld you.”

“Your brother is certainly protective, isn’t he?” He peeks up again and finds said man ready to march down the hall and intervene. Even from this distance, Jaime can see how he fingers the pommel of Longclaw like a promise. Lady Sansa directs a cool gaze at Jaime before turning to whisper something to the King, her expression towards her bastard brother morphing into something amused and longsuffering. Jon Snow harrumphs and leans back in his chair, defeated. Beside them, Bran simply gazes at Jaime and Arya with a serene look.

“He died for me,” Arya says quietly, and his head snaps in her direction. He’d heard stories of an undead lord commander, of the nefarious red witch who brought him back. Jaime thought them tall tales, but here they all are, readying for battle with ice monsters and frozen kings. Who knows what goes on in this frigid, barren land.

He watches as the mirth entirely slips from Arya, her expression too sad for Jaime’s liking. He loathes that far off look in her eyes and stifles the urge to reach out and smooth the furrow of her brow.

Jaime suddenly thinks of her warning that night in the godswood. _You are not an honorable man, mayhaps you could die one. _Again and again, it rattles in his head. Mocking. Urging. Eerie. Gentle. Loving, even. “Would you do the same?” Jaime finds himself asking.

It is the first time Arya presents him with a true smile, soft and beautiful and all too knowing for a slight girl of seven and ten. “I would.” she says quietly, offering no further explanation. Carefully, she places a warm hand on his shoulder. “Goodnight, Jaime.” With that, Arya rises from the table and makes her way towards her family.

Jaime is left watching her retreating form, notes the ease with which she moves—the relaxed slope of her shoulders, the quiet strength of her spine. He imagines the lovely smile she must be directing at her brothers and sister. _The things we do for love,_ he recalls. But no, this is different. This isn’t hiding or shame or fiendish pride. _It’s love, to be sure. But it’s loyalty, too. And honor_, Jaime thinks with an uncomfortable tightening in his chest. The love they have for each other, the love they have for their people. He wants that, he realizes.

Jaime continues to watch Arya. Yes, mayhaps he would do anything for it. For her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't quite know where this is going, but it's fun /shrugs


	4. The Long Night

Arya helps a young man, limping and bloodied, into the great hall, where a makeshift triage center’s been set up. She lays him on a cot, giving his hand a last squeeze before leaving him to Sam.

All around her are the pained moans of half dead soldiers. The long night had been won, but at a cost. She can still hear the screams as loved ones trickled from the crypts to find what remained of their husbands, brothers, and sons. Arya takes in the stench of death and decay, acutely feeling the ice cold grip on her throat from the Night King, and draws back, frantically making for the exit.

She dizzies and stumbles, cursing the after effects of a large wound on her forehead, when a hand shoots out to steady her.

“Where do you think you’re going, Stark?”

Arya closes her eyes and says a silent prayer of thanks. “Jaime,” she murmurs, voice relieved. Turning, she takes in his haggard appearance, the blood and grime caked along his face, on his grizzled hand which holds her up. He looks absolutely dreadful, and Arya’s never been more glad to see him.

“You’re alive,” she says, dazed.

Jaime quirks his head at her before slipping into an easy smile. “Seems the gods thought to spare me. Better luck next time, I suppose.”

Arya lets out a tired chuckle, and it sounds a little mad to her own ears. Her head is pounding, she feels far away.

“Alright, let’s just—hey,” he mutters, leading her to a vacant corner and gently pushing her down on a spare cot.

“No,” Arya mumbles, immediately using whatever strength she has left to swat at him. She can’t rest here, there’s still more work to do. She has to speak with Jon, check in with Sansa, sit with Bran, make sure they’re all alright.

Jaime easily grabs her wrists, bringing them to her chest to still her. “Arya, please. You’ve got a burn mark on your neck, you’re still bleeding from your head, you can barely stand. Please.” It’s not like him to plead, she thinks. Arya doesn’t put up a fight anymore. She thumps her head back, taking a moment to catalogue her injuries.

Jaime dips a stray rag in some water and carefully cleans the blood fron her temple. His hand moves clumsily along her face, drawing a path down to her neck before his breath hitches.

“You really did it, gods…” Jaime whispers, a strange look on his face—half amazed, half … _something_ else. He looks as though he might scold her, but his mouth just hangs open, expression slack-jawed and conflicted.

Sighing, Arya lifts a hand to cover his. “I did,” she says simply. “And I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he grits out, fingers curling around the column of her neck. “You could have died.”

Arya swallows the urge to snort. It would hurt too much, she thinks wryly. “We all could have died. We fought death tonight, and…” her voice trails off, mind muddled. “People died,” she says quietly, closing her eyes and trying to focus on the warmth of his touch.

She pushes away images of Beric Dondarrion and Ser Brienne’s sweet boy squire and little Lyanna Mormont. Tomorrow, their bodies will lay in a funeral pyre. “I’m alive. As are you. Isn’t that enough?”

It’s quiet between them, the frantic shuffling and pained groans of the great hall no more than white noise. Arya feels a light brush against her brow, the soft caress of warm, chapped lips, and she opens her eyes in surprise.

Jaime busies himself with the rag again, dipping it back in the basin and sweeping it across his own face and neck. When he catches Arya staring, he huffs, cheeks flushed. “What?”

Arya offers a beguiling smile. “You’ve gone soft, Kingslayer.”

Before Jaime can respond, Samwell Tarly is shuffling towards them, Jon and Sansa hot on his heels, sporting matching worried gazes. Sam spares Jaime a fleeting smile before directing his attention on Arya. “How are you feeling, my lady?”

“I’m fine, Sam—”

“She’s not. She was dizzy, unsteady when I found her. The cut on her head needs stitching, as do the gashes on her arms and hands, I’m sure. There’s a cold burn mark on her neck as well.” Jaime’s tone is final.

Arya glares at him while Sam sputters into action, calling on an aide for sterilized cloth and milk of poppy. When Jon and Sansa move to flank their sister, their expressions for her are soft, and begrudgingly thankful to the Kingslayer as they push him aside. Sansa sweeps some of the hair from Arya’s forehead as Jon squeezes her fingers.

“How are you feeling, really?” he asks.

“I’m alive,” Arya murmurs for the second time that night, squeezing back and smiling at her brother and sister. Her expression pales the next moment. “How many did we lose?” She watches as Sansa shuts her eyes, shaking her head. _She lost someone,_ Arya realizes sadly.

“Don’t worry about that now,” Jon says quietly. “Let’s get you better.” He steps aside as Sam bounds forward. Sansa holds her sister’s hand as the maester gets to stitching.

“Where’s Bran?” she asks urgently, worry clear in her voice.

“He’s alright, Arya. In fact, he seems … more alert. You can visit him later.”

Arya means to ask more but suddenly groans in pain, wincing as Sam bandages her neck.

“You’ll sit with her?”

Jaime’s head snaps to the King. This is the most the bastard’s said to him outside war council, outside glaring at him and muttering _Kingslayer_. His expression is smooth, eyes focused on his little sister.

“I will.”

Jon nods once before murmuring something to his sisters, and he and Sansa exit the great hall with a promise to visit Arya as soon as they can. She nods in thanks, laughing lightly and offering a rude gesture when Jon refers to her as The Bringer of Dawn.

Jaime resumes his position by Arya’s side, gently cupping her cheek before settling his hand on her shoulder, warm and solid. If the maester notices, he doesn’t say a word, deftly finishing up his work and leaving the pair with a hesitant smile.

When Arya turns to him, her eyes are already glassy from the milk of poppy. “You’re staying?”

“I am, Bringer of Dawn,” he says, bowing his head theatrically.

“Don’t call me that,” she mumbles, eyes slipping shut.

Jaime smooths the hair from her face again. “And what should I call you, hm?” he asks, tone airy. “Mayhaps the Night King slayer?”

Half asleep already, Arya’s mouth turns up in a little grin. “Doesn’t sound so bad. We’ll match.”

Despite the pounding in his head and the soreness of his body and the worry in his gut, Jaime laughs, a light gentle sound. Only Arya would find a kingslayer title admirable. “Sleep, little wolf. I’ll be here when you wake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!


	5. The Feast

The feast was surprisingly raucous. Everyone was either half in their cups or well on their way. The dead had been defeated, the North had lost more good men than imaginable, but the people celebrated. They cheered. Specifically, they cheered for one girl, endeared shouts growing louder as their heroine flushed crimson and slinked off to the dais to join her family.

Jaime idly sipped his wine while sneaking glances at Arya. As the night wore on, however, he hardly saw the point of being discreet among the inebriated, rowdy guests. He stared freely now, drank in the sight of her as she smiled, as she ate, as she chatted and japed with her brothers and sister—something bawdy he figured, as Lady Sansa blushed as bright as her hair and hooted in scandal. Every so often, their eyes would meet, and her mouth would turn up in the slightest grin before directing her attention back on her family.

Soon enough, the music started up, and he watched as a wilding—the big, redheaded, vulgar one—pulled Arya to her feet and whirled her around the dance floor. She laughed sweetly as she tried to keep in step, grunting in surprise as Tormund wrapped an arm around her waist and artfully dipped her low. Jaime felt a niggling in the back of his throat then, a strange, possessive feeling settling in his chest. From the dais, Jon was smiling so widely the kingslayer thought his face might split. _Huh_, he thought, _how strange it was to not see the King in the North brooding_.

His thoughts are interrupted by a rustling at his side. Turning, he faces the boy—no, the man—he’d committed to a crippled life some decade ago.

“Ser Jaime.”

“My lord Bran,” he says cautiously. Ever since Jaime’s arrival in Winterfell, the youngest Stark watched him with that same, jarringly calm expression. It unnerved him. As the silence extends, Jaime coughs. “I’m—I’m glad to see you well, my lord.”

Bran raises his eyebrows in an amused manner. Perhaps he’d snort if the hold on his emotions let up for a second.

“I mean, from the white walkers. The plan to draw them out, with you in the godswood, and…” he trails off, expression awkward. “I’m glad to see you alive, my lord,” he settles on finally.

“As am I,” Bran croons in that strangely inflectionless voice. “I survived the long night, my family saw to that.” He turns towards Arya then, gaze far off. “Do you know what killed him?” he asks blandly, as if inquiring about the weather.

“The night king? It was…a dagger, was it not?”

“Aye, a Valyrian blade meant to kill me as a boy. My mother stopped the assailant back then, drew her own blood to save her child. After Arya stabbed the Night King, she turned to me and said, _‘If I didn’t save your sorry ass, Mother would come back to kill me.’_” Bran smiles then, a near true smile as he continues to watch Arya.

Jaime feels something crack in his chest. Catelyn Stark was not a woman to be trifled with, he knew. She’d have done anything for her children, even going so far as to place her trust in a shamed kingsguard knight. Jaime thinks on his oath to see the Stark girls to safety, and he could laugh at how it all turned out. Sansa and Arya waded through hell to find their way home. They’d done so without his help. And he’d gone back to Cersei time and time again, with his tail tucked between his legs like an obedient, beaten dog.

He watches as Arya flits from Tormund to another lumbering form—the bastard blacksmith, her best mate. She looks endlessly happy like this, moving to the thumping beats, hair swaying wild, with a smile so bright it could rival the sun as she hounds her friend to dance along. _She looks free_, he thinks.

“She deserves better than the likes of me,” he says to himself.

“That may be, Ser Jaime.”

He whirls around, suddenly remembering Bran by his side. His eyes are wide, his mouth set in an embarrassed frown.

“You’re awfully hard on yourself, ser. Some of that is warranted. But the rest…” Bran cocks his head at Jaime. “Do you think you could be a good man?”

His eyes find the floor as he remembers his first conversation with Arya. “I could die one,” he responds quietly.

Bran chuckles, a queer, haunting sound. “The gods won’t take you just yet, Jaime Lannister. Not if my sister has any say in it, at least.”

“We’re not—” he rasps but is cut off.

“We are only human,” Bran starts quietly, that same far off look on his face. “And the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy. You should be honest with yourself, ser. With my sister as well. Mayhaps your story won’t end as poorly as you think.”

The young lord glances down at the steel hanging from Jaime’s hip, smiling slightly. “That was kind of you, Jaime,” he murmurs, and with that, he wheels himself through the crowd and back to his family.

\-----

“I have something for you.”

Arya spins around in surprise, the movement jostling her mug of ale. Jaime leans ever closer, steadying the cup and planting a tentative hand on the wood table. Her face is prettily flushed, from the alcohol or the dancing he can’t tell. His fingers itch to tuck her loose tresses behind her ear, to smooth across the scar at her temple, mayhaps even close their distance and kiss along the chilling mark on her neck. Instead, he just stares at her, tongue darting out to moisten his lips in anticipation.

She leans back slightly, eyes following his movement and gaze settling on his lips. “You—hello,” Arya says haltingly.

“Hello. I have something for you,” he repeats in an amused voice.

“Am I meant to guess or…” She trails off, lifting her gaze to his before taking a measured sip of her ale.

“If you could spare a moment, my lady.” Jaime straightens then, nodding slightly to the rest of the table, only to be met with awkward harrumphs. The long night was over, and while there was camaraderie in having survived the undead together, the Northmen and their allies were still suspicious of the man. They’d stopped their harsh scowls and muttering _Kingslayer_ though—well, save for one it seemed.

Across from Arya, the bastard smith sits surly and stiff. He fixes Jaime with a cold glare before nodding back, eyes sliding back to his friend with a look of such worry and affection Jaime’s throat goes dry. Gendry had been short with him in previous interactions, grunting through conversations, and only agreeing to do the kingslayer’s bidding when he mentioned Arya.

Arya peers at him, a curious look on her face. “We could…get some air?” she asks, gesturing towards the exit.

Jaime nods and offers an arm, steadying her as she rises from the table after bidding her friends goodnight. She wraps her hand round the crook of his elbow, thin fingers tapping a beat against his forearm.

When they exit the great hall, the cool air hits them like a harsh lover’s kiss, startling as it blankets across their faces. Jaime hisses, pulling them to the side as he undoes his cloak and clasps it around Arya.

She laughs, a low, pleasant sound. “You look like you could use this more.”

“I’m being chivalrous, my lady. Appreciate it while it lasts, would you?”

Arya rolls her eyes, jerking her head forward and leading him up one corridor with a slight sway. The ale must be getting to her. Jaime quickly reaches out and clasps her hand in his, swallowing an amused snort. _It would be just like her_, he thinks, _feared warrior, slayer of the fucking Night King, but unable to handle her drink_. She tugs him towards the battlements, or what remained of it. The partial wall shields them from the howling winds though, wrapping them in an eerie quiet.

“Well, then,” she murmurs, a small, expectant look on her face.

Jaime gives in then, reaching forward and slipping a wild tress behind her ear, hand working down the nape and settling along the column of her throat. Slowly, ever so slowly, so as to give her a chance to stop him, Jaime wraps his other arm around her waist and pulls Arya forward. His thumb works beneath her jaw and urges her face skyward, slightly tipping it to the side, and he leans in to kiss her.

It’s a soft, chaste thing at first. Just the gentle press of his lips against hers. They kiss once, twice, before Arya gasps, reaching up to card her hands in his hair and pull him closer. She leans up and catches his bottom lip, darting her tongue out to lick inside his mouth, hot and filthy. Arya kisses like a woman starved, and when she slides a hand to Jaime’s chest and pushes him into the cobbled wall—the lithe line of her body melting into his—he groans embarrassingly loud, absently grateful they’re alone out here.

They kiss like that for some time, Jaime’s good hand cupping the side of her face while the stump of his other presses against the small of her back, unknowingly shifting Arya to straddle one of his thighs. She moans into his mouth then, a low, needy noise, and Jaime has the forethought to separate their bodies before this gets too far. He gives her one last kiss before reluctantly parting.

She makes a noise of protest, and he chuckles, leaning down to press his forehead to hers, breath shaky. "Arya," Jaime chides, “I really did have something for you, you know.”

“Other than a kiss?” she whispers.

Laughing again, Jaime pulls back, holding her hand in his. He feels mad, a tremulous, wild feeling coursing through his body. “Yes, other than a kiss.” Absently, he wonders how many men Arya Stark had kissed in her short years. How man men had she pressed up against, working her tongue inside them like a minstrel, setting them aflame from her touch?

She looks up at him, suddenly shy as she bounces on the balls of her feet. “Well, what is it?”

“That night in the godswood,” he starts, and her expression immediately sobers.

Pulling her hand from his and turning away, she roughly clears her throat. “We don’t have to talk about that.”

Jaime darts forward and blocks her path. “That night,” he says again, “you said I was dishonorable for wielding your father’s sword.”

Arya gives him a hard look. “I know.”

“You were right,” he says. “My father had no right to melt down Ned’s greatsword. I never wanted it.” His tortured expression matches Arya’s then. Years of guilt and pain compound in this one moment and he quickly unsheathes his blade and presents it to her, new hilt and pommel glistening in the moonlight. “It’s yours. Your family’s, Arya.”

With shaky hands, Arya holds the sword in both hands, blade feeling impossibly heavy as her finger traces the carved wolf and topaz details. “How did you—” she rasps, tears building at the corner of her eyes.

“Your smith friend did it,” he offers, shrugging. “He, uh, doesn’t like me much,” Jaime says with a snort. “Not quite sure why, but—”

“Your sister tried to have him killed,” Arya cuts in.

“Why?”

“Not my story to tell. Gendry helped you with this?” she asks, hands gripping the sword as if it were a raft line. Like how a child might cling to their favorite toy after waking from a nightmare.

“Aye. He did it for you.”

“And you?” Arya asks, tears trickling down her face, expression unsure. “Why did you do it?”

Jaime smiles down at her, soft and sad. “I think you know, little wolf.”

Arya nods, still clutching the sword as she inches closer and butts her head against his chest. “He should have been here,” she whispers, voice broken and thick with emotion. “I miss him.”

Wrapping his arms around her, Jaime rests his chin atop her head. “I’m sorry, Arya,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” he repeats it like a litany, voice tender as he apologizes to her and begins to forgive himself.


	6. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sorry it's been a while. i'm in the process of packing/moving so updates might come a lil slower*  
thanks for reading!

It had only been a moon and a half’s turn since Jaime’s departure. He’d stolen away in the dark of night, riding off on a Northern steed for King’s Landing. Arya woke one morning with a tattered scrap of paper on her table and the household in disarray._ Mayhaps you were right after all, little wolf. I’m sorry,_ was all the note read.

As they marched south, everyone—soldier and highborn alike—walked on eggshells with the Imp locked away and the Dragon Queen stewing in her contempt. Much of the Northmen were beginning to warm to the kingslayer; his input during war council, as well as his well known affection for Arya, had gained him the begrudging respect of the people. But the current situation put them all on edge.

It was anyone’s guess what Jaime hoped to achieve by going off on his own. There were rumors he meant to free Cersei, stow her away or run off to the Free Cities with her before Daenerys arrived. Each possibility hammered away at Arya’s heart. They hadn’t spoken of the future or of what ifs, in fact there was little possibility of an _after _given the upcoming battle. But they had shared more than a handful of kisses, and settled into an easy courtship—if throwing teasing remarks while practicing swordplay and tumbling around the training yard could be considered courting.

At reading the note Jaime left her, Arya simply smoothed her expression and carried on preparing for their journey south. She’d spent years locking away parts of herself, now was no different. There was still an enemy to defeat and no matters of the heart would get in the way of delivering justice to Cersei Lannister. What she would do when met with the sight of the kingslayer, Arya wasn’t sure.

If they caught him alive, Dany would no doubt call for his head. Perhaps the Dragon Queen would want to serve justice herself, as repentance for her father’s life. Arya pictured Jaime on his knees, his prone form bent over a block, a hot blade coming down on his neck while the people jeered. _Is that the honorable death he thinks I imagine for him? _Arya thought.

She rode stoically, Jon trying his best to comfort his sister while stifling a growing anxiety for what they’d find in King’s Landing. They’d said little along the Kingsroad, stopping every few nights to make camp and keep a healthy distance from Dany. They often heard her berating Tyrion, accusing him of conspiring with Jaime. After Jorah died in battle, and Missandei taken prisoner during the failed attempt to derail Euron’s fleet, Daenerys had too few people at her side. Her small council dwindled, and her mind strayed.

As they closed in on King’s Landing, hordes of Lannister soldiers brandished their swords in the name of their queen. Jon pled for reason, with the Northmen and Arya at his side, when the tower bells finally rang—a beacon of hope amidst the growing threat of bloodshed. Daenerys circled ahead on Drogon, the dragon’s hissing suddenly turning guttural, fearsome expression matching its mother. Their cries sounded through the city like some awful wailing, and as Greyworm threw his spear at surrendering soldiers, plumes of fire tore down on the blessed city. Arya would always remember this as the moment the Dragon Queen lost her throne.

\-----

Arya finds him in the rubble torn room of the Red Keep, blood dripping from his temple and a small, weeping bundle in his arms. She can hear his quiet sobbing—the slight catch in his throat as he slowly rocks the bundle, cooing nonsense in a soothing manner. As Arya inches closer, she sees the tuft of golden hair peeking from behind the blanket and a pudgy hand swatting in the air.

“Shh, son, it’ll be alright,” he whispers.

“Jaime.”

He whirls around, a haunted look on his gaunt face. He looks as though he fought his last war, Arya thinks. Beaten, broken.

“Arya,” he rasps. His entire side is soaked in blood and ash. There’s a cut near his ribs and scratch marks down his neck, as though someone meant to rip his skin apart. 

Drogon’s growls echo outside the castle walls, as the cries of the small folk and soldiers permeate the air. Parts of the keep are still crumbling around them. It’s a miracle Arya was able to make her way through the royal chambers at all. She passed Cersei’s paling form in the corridor, body settling into rigor mortis as a pile of coarse debris bore down on her.

She seemed smaller than Arya remembered.

It was not the end she envisioned for the Golden Queen, nor did it deliver the kind of sweet retribution Arya ached for when she thought of what her family had suffered. But perhaps there was no proper end during war—vengeful or honorable.

She takes in the sight of Jaime and his newborn and finds her heart cracking. Arya shuts her eyes and sends a silent prayer for the babe. _It won’t be easy, little one. I’m sorry,_ she thinks. That he will never know the love of his mother, that he will have to learn the truth of his parentage one day.

“Jaime,” Arya says again. Softly. Sweetly. “Hand me the babe.”

Jaime takes a halting step back, staggering from the weight of his injuries but holding tight to his son. His expression is pained and untrusting. “No, I—”

“I will not let harm come to him, I swear it, to the old gods and the new. But please, Jaime, we need to get you looked at. And somewhere safe too. Where Dany can’t find you. She’ll have your head.”

“Let her have it then,” he growls. “I’ll not cower before another Mad Queen. She’s as twisted as her damned father! Burning this city to a crisp and for what? She’ll ruin much of this kingdom before she can rule it!” Jaime shouts, startling the babe.

Arya takes a small step forward, hands outstretched in a placating manner. When they’re mere inches apart, she places a trembling palm to his neck, steadying him. “And Queen Cersei sentenced her people to die the moment she turned her back on the living. We fought a war against _death_, Jaime. You, and me, and Jon, and Brienne, and Sansa, every Northman and our allies. Even the godsdamned Dragon Queen. We fought the dead and we won. And your sister stayed in King’s Landing and plotted all the while.”

“That’s what queens do, little wolf,” he sneers, callous expression at war with the gentle way he cradles his son, rocking back and forth. “They plot, and they fight, and they _win._”

“But she didn’t win. She died for it,” Arya says quietly and not unkindly. “She died much the same way she lived—holed up in her castle, staunchly clutching at a throne, and seeing little reason. I know you rang those bells in surrender. You wanted to save this city, you wanted to save your babe. So please,” she rasps, voice finally breaking. “Choose to live. Don’t let this be your end. Your son needs you. Please.”

Tears stream down Jaime’s ashen face as he shuts his eyes and leans his forehead against hers. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to be,” he whispers. “I would’ve gotten her out of here. I asked her to go, to leave the babe with me so that he might grow up knowing something other than schemes and deceit,” Jaime admits. “I wanted…there’s so much I wanted…” he trails off, fingers carding through the babe’s messy hair.

Jaime presses a kiss to the boy’s temple before handing the squirming bundle to Arya. She cradles him against her chest as Jaime finally sags at her side.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, blood steadily gushing from the wound near his ribcage. His head feels heavy, his chest tight. Jaime’s vision blurs, the sight of Arya and his son’s face etched into his memory before he succumbs to the pain and sees black.

\-----

The first thing he hears after rousing is the gurgled whimpers of a babe. The next thing he feels is a cool rag running down his cheek and neck. Jaime cracks an eye open, sitting up and groaning at the soreness of his body and the rawness of newly stitched wounds.

He’s met with Arya, her face pale and mouth screwed up in a frown. “My son,” he murmurs. “Arya, where’s—”

She shushes him and presses a hand to his shoulder, stilling his movements. “He’s right here.”

Jaime’s heart calms at the sight of the babe, face cherubic and grin silly as he wriggles in Arya’s embrace as she hands him over. His hair is the color of sunflowers, while his eyes a brilliant emerald. The smile on his face is ever sweet, untainted by the wars that came before him. Jaime settles the boy against his chest, a hand crossing his small form as the boy’s head lolls on his father’s shoulder, curious hand grabbing at his sparse beard.

“He’s alright,” Arya offers quietly. “We had a maester look you both over.”

He rubs a soothing hand across the boy’s back. “How long have I been…” Jaime trails off, turning his head to and fro. They seem to be in some spare cell turned makeshift maester’s study. Stray parchment litters the table by his side, as well as a basin and few cloths. Arya stands easily on his other side, dressed in an overly large tunic and wool breeches. A bandage peeks out from beneath her top, stretched across her shoulder. A purpling bruise mars her cheek, a healed scar runs across her forehead, another curling around her neck and disappearing behind her wild tresses. Warrior’s wounds. She looks beautiful, Jaime thinks.

He’s roused from his thoughts when Arya reaches out and plays with the frayed hem of the babe’s nightshirt. “It’s been a few days. You were hit with fever while you were healing. We kept you company though. Right, little one?” She runs a finger down his pudgy cheek.

“You’ve been calling him Little One?” Jaime asks with a slight smile.

“I didn’t know what else to call him.”

Jaime mulls it over, hugging his son tight. “I think I’d like to call him Rory,” he says quietly. He lifts the babe and sits him on his stomach. “How does that sound, little one?”

The boy flails his little arms about and babbles happily. He grabs onto Jaime’s ears, nose, wherever he can reach, and exclaims.

Arya laughs, a sweet, gentle sound. “I think he likes it. A kind name,” she murmurs. Rory twists at the sound of her voice, grinning with wild abandon the way that only a babe can. She reaches out and he grasps her finger with surprising strength, giggling all the while.

Jaime shuts his eyes for a moment, holding onto his son a little tighter and luxuriating in the sound of his and Arya’s shared laughter.

“Arya, what happened…after?” he finally asks, tucking Rory against his chest and smoothing a hand through his hair.

She takes a seat on his cot, fingers twisting together as she chews at her lip. “Dany is gone. The Dothraki as well.”

His eyebrows raise. He was sure he’d wake to the Dragon Queen screaming for a block, a blade in her hands.

“After—after the burning, Jon confronted her. They had words, and … I’m not exactly sure what was said, but I think the gravity of what happened finally hit her. Women and children burning in the streets, men gone wild with bloodlust…” Arya’s voice falters, a haunted, far off look on her face. “Well,” she says, clearing her throat, “if she thought there was a lack of adoration for her in the North… a burned capital certainly holds no love for the Dragon Queen now. Drogon burned the throne and they were gone the next day.”

“You don’t think she’ll just return for power after everything’s quieted down?”

“I don’t know much about the conquest of power,” Arya says, shrugging. “But we’ll be ready if that happens. Jon’s been working with Davos and your brother, planning on how to rebuild the city and help the smallfolk settle in temporary shelters.”

“Your brother ought to rule,” Jaime murmurs. “Lord Commander, King in the North, what’s another title?”

Arya snorts delicately. “You’d have to kidnap Jon and strap him to a chair if you wanted him to stay south. He’ll remain here until things settle, though. He wants that much for the people,” she says quietly.

“He’s a good man.”

“Aye, he is. That’s why he won’t have your head.” She peers up at Jaime, eyes sad and conflicted.

When he reaches his free arm out, stump nudging against her wrist, she wraps her fingers around him and squeezes. “I know what I was doing, Arya. I’ll accept any punishment. But you promise me whatever happens, you’ll look after Rory. You tell him his father loves him…and that I’m sorry. To you as well.”

She peers down at the babe, watching his eyes droop and mouth go slack. _He sleeps so easy_, Arya thinks wryly. And barely cries. A kind babe, a babe who she hopes never knows the true sacrifice of war. Smoothing a hand down Rory’s back until her fingers grip at Jaime’s hand, she nods. “I promise.”

Jaime clears his throat, eyes skittering away. “Surely you’re regretting your choices now, Stark,” he starts with false bravado. “Should’ve never approached me in the godswood.” He chuckles darkly. “Should’ve never thrown about ideas like honor. I wouldn’t know the meaning of the word if it knocked me on my ass.”

Arya scoots closer, hand reaching up to cup his cheek even as he avoids her gaze. She is being unusually soft with him, and Jaime is waiting for her to finally see him for what he really is. She ought to be slapping him across the face or fleeing without another look back. Anything, anything but this sweet gentleness which chips away at his heart.

He is still preparing for her eventual harsh words when Arya leans over and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. Slowly, she reels back and runs the pad of her thumb across his lower lip.

“Mayhaps you are learning,” she surmises, a thoughtful look on her face.

Jaime feels a traitorous thread of hope bloom in his chest, deep beneath the place where his son now peacefully sleeps, head nestled against the crook of his father’s neck.

Despite his best efforts, Jaime imagines a future where he can be a good father to a kind boy, can teach Rory what it means to be a decent and honorable man. _A fool’s dream_, the crueler part of his mind whispers. But when he peers back at Arya, it doesn’t feel so impossible. It feels like a future, and it brings a hesitant smile to his lips.

“Maybe so, little wolf.” 


End file.
